s already gone too far over. Secondly, if he did, there is no reason why he should suppose it was us. And thirdly, we've no guarantee that there are no Russians within sight of the lake. They'd spot the smoke, and they'd soon be over to investigate. We should look fools then, shouldn't we?'
The flying-boat roared straight on and soon disappeared in the eastern sky.
`But if it's looking for us why didn't the pilot circle round?' argued Algy.
Òbviously, because it didn't occur to him that we might be so near the frontier. After all, why should it? He's going on to the
lake where we crashed the Blenheim. Naturally, that's where he'd expect to find us.'
`That's a bit thick,' muttered Ginger. 'Had we stayed where we were we should have been all right.'
Ì agree it is maddening, but "ifs" don't count in this game,' was Biggles's last observation on the matter.
A little while later two Messerschmitts passed over the lake, some distance to the north, and shortly afterwards the Russian bombers came back.
`Great Scott! The sky is absolutely stiff with machines,' declared Algy.
`Yes, we've certainly stirred things up,' agreed Biggles smiling. He glanced at the sun, now far down in the west. Twilight was beginning to settle over the inhospitable land. '
We haven't much longer to wait,' he added. 'As soon as the sun goes down we'll be on our way.'
Nothing more was said. The aircraft disappeared like birds going home to roost. Silence returned. There was no sign of the Russians on the distant shore, and Biggles was justified in hoping that they had left the vicinity. The others were now impatient to be off, but Biggles was too wise to take unnecessary risks by making a premature start. He insisted on waiting until the sun sank behind the hills and darkness fell. As far as they could see there was no sign of human occupation, in all the surrounding landscape.
They launched the boat quietly and took their places. Biggles picked up the oars. He was beginning to feel weak from want of food, but he said nothing about it, and the boat, now free of water, made good progress. Nearing the land he began to proceed with more caution. 'Keep your eyes skinned,' he warned
the others. 'If you see anything suspicious let me know; otherwise keep quiet.'
It was a tense moment as the boat crept up to the silent shore; they had no proof that they had not been seen, and for all they knew a score of Russian rifles might be waiting to receive them. Water was gurgling softly in the bottom of the boat, but none of them noticed it; they were too intent on what they were doing. At a distance of twenty yards Biggles turned the boat about and backed in, very slowly, ready to pull out again the instant danger threatened; but nothing happened, so he shipped the oars and allowed the little craft to glide on. It came to rest under the bank. For a minute they all sat still, nerves strained to catch the slightest sound. Then Biggles got out. 'I think it's all right,' he said softly.
Hardly had the words left his lips when voices could be heard approaching. Biggles crouched flat against the muddy bank; the others remained in the boat which Algy, by pulling on a root, drew right in flush with the bank.
How many men there were in the party that came along the lakeside they did not know; nor could they see who they were. They spoke — indeed they seemed to be talking excitedly; but what they said was unintelligible; presumably they were talking in Russian. They crashed along, making a good deal of noise. Once they stopped and were silent. It was a nasty moment for the fugitives. But then the conversation was resumed; brushwood crashed and the footsteps receded. Presently the sounds died away in the distance.
Biggles wiped his forehead. 'This is making an old man of me,' he breathed. 'For the love of Mike don't make a noise — it looks as if the whole blessed country is swarming with Russians. That must
have been a patrol just gone past. All right, come on. Leave the boat under the bushes where it won't be seen in the morning.'
Presently the others joined him. For a little while they stood motionless, listening.
`Single file, but keep close together. Stop if I stop,' whispered Biggles.
In front of them the ground rose steeply. What lay beyond the ridge none of them knew, but their way lay in that direction so they took it unhesitatingly. Biggles led. Like Indians on the warpath they crept up the slope, stopping every few minutes to listen. At length, moving like shadows, they breasted the ridge and looked over. Beyond, the ground fell away into vague mysterious shadows, which they could only assume was rugged country similar to that which they had crossed on the far side of the lake. Straight in front, on the line they would have to take, a dim light could be observed. It did not move, and appeared to be shining from the window of a dwelling-house. Biggles glanced at the heavens, picked out a star to guide him on a straight course, and resumed the march.
For an hour they went on steadily, not relaxing their caution, and still halting frequently to listen. Once, in the distance, they heard a sound like someone chopping wood with an axe; on another occasion a wolf howled. That was all. Progress in these circumstances was, of course, slow, and Biggles reckoned that they had covered about a mile, which was not unsatisfactory, for they still had several hours of darkness before them, and he felt that if they could keep up the same pace dawn ought to see them very close to the frontier.
During one of the frequent halts Ginger whispered to Biggles, `We didn't see the flying-boat come back.'
Ìt may be staying the night on the lake, or, what is more likely, it went home by a different route,' answered Biggles softly, and then went on again.
In front of them the light, which they now saw came from a window of a substantial house, glowed ever more strongly, and it became clear that if they held on their present course they would pass within a short distance of it. Biggles, however, had no intention of doing this, so he began to edge away to the right in order to miss it by a fairly wide margin. He knew that at such a lonely residence there would certainly be a dog, perhaps several, and not lap-dogs either, but the big husky wolfhound type of animal common in northern Europe — a house-dog in the true sense of the word. Apart from the risk of being attacked and perhaps badly bitten, if they passed too near the house the dog's keen ears would detect them, with the result that there would be a commotion. So he decided to steer clear.
Then, suddenly, the light went out.
`What does that mean?' whispered Algy.
Ì should say it means that the people have gone to bed,' answered Biggles without stopping.
As they drew level with it, at a distance of some two hundred yards, it was possible to see the building silhouetted against the sky, for it stood on high ground, and it turned out to be a much larger establishment than they had at first supposed.
It put an idea into Ginger's head. He was hungry, very hungry; indeed, he was weak from hunger. In fact, they were all feeling the strain, although none would be the first to admit it. Biggles's wounded head was beginning to throb again; he was exhausted, and only forced himself to continue the march by sheer willpower.
Ì wonder if we could get any food from that place?' whispered Ginger.
Biggles halted and then sat down. 'Let's rest for a minute,' he suggested.
Algy glanced at Ginger and made a grimace. It was unlike Biggles to suggest a rest, and he guessed the reason — that he was very near the end of his strength. He himself was feeling anything but bright, for he had been more badly bruised and shaken by his crash than he admitted. He sat down near Biggles.
Ginger looked at both of them. 'There was a time years ago, before you found me wandering about without visible means of subsistence, when I was pretty good at foraging for food,' he said quietly. 'We need food badly.'
`We can do without it,' said Biggles in a hard voice. 'We're too near the frontier to take risks.'
`That may be so, but we've got twenty miles to go after we cross before we can hope to find food, don't forget. Remember what happened to the professor — he was wandering about for days w
ithout finding help.'
`The weather conditions were worse then,' argued Biggles obstinately.
`Food, even a few raw potatoes, would put new life in us,' persisted Ginger.
`Listen, laddie,' said Biggles tersely. 'I know something about this escape business. In nine cases out of ten, when fellows are caught they slip up in the same way. They get desperate for food, and give themselves away trying to get it.'
`Well, I can understand that,' agreed Ginger.
`You're suggesting that we make the same blunder.'
`You think we can last three or four more days without food? It can hardly be less, and it might even be longer.'
Biggles hesitated. The truth of Ginger's argument was not to be denied, and he realized that none of them could go on much longer without food and not crack up. 'What d'you suggest?' he asked.
Ì suggest that you two stay here while I have a scout round the house. I won't take any risks. A place that size ought to have outbuildings, and there should be food stored in them, if only field crops. Cut off as they are from anywhere, the people here would be certain to have enough food to last them through the winter.'
Biggles looked at Algy. 'What d'you think?'
`Well, I think it's a risk, but there's no doubt that we need food badly; in fact, if we don't soon get some there seems to be a serious risk of our passing out from sheer starvation.
In any case, unless we get some food we shall be too weak to put up any sort of resistance if we happen to run into a bunch of Russians. We should be more in the mood to give ourselves up — if only for the sake of getting something to eat.'
`The danger is dogs.'
Algy shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course — but there it is. It's up to you to decide if the risk is worth while.'
Biggles turned to Ginger. 'All right,' he said slowly. 'Have a shot at it, laddie, but for the love of Mike be careful. If a dog starts barking come straight back here and we'll push on.'
Ginger smiled. 'I'll be careful,' he said, and disappeared into the gloom.
CHAPTER XV
A Staggering Discovery
Never had Ginger approached a project with such excessive caution as he now employed; the need for it could hardly be
exaggerated, for it seemed highly probable that on his success or failure the lives of all of them depended. When he had promised to take no risks he had meant it, but he knew that the whole enterprise was a risk, a ghastly risk. Still, it was a risk that had to be taken if they were to avoid the greater risk of dying of starvation, or sinking into such a low condition that they would be unequal to the task before them. No Indian on a scalp-hunting expedition, no felon engaged in a nefarious operation, ever approached an object with greater stealth than he observed in his advance upon the lonely dwelling that loomed like a great black shadow in front of him. Without giving the matter any serious thought, he had assumed it to be the residence of the local landowner, a prosperous farmer, or, as we might say, the lord of the manor, and it was not until he drew close that he realized that it was something even larger. It could nearly lay claim to the title of castle. In the days before the revolution it must have been the country seat of some noble family.
The building stood in the centre of what had once doubtless been extensive gardens, the whole surrounded by trees, many of them ornamental evergreens that had obviously been imported; but the gardens were now a jungle, and a tangle of briars and bushes, brown and sere from the icy grip of winter, had advanced almost to the walls. This undergrowth offered a certain amount of cover, an advantage that was largely offset, however, by its liability to snap when trodden on.
The building itself was in a bad state of repair, and presented a woebegone appearance.
All this Ginger noted as he stood on the inner edge of the encircling belt of trees.
Motionless as a statue, he surveyed the structure section by section, window by window, making a picture in his mind of the most salient features, and noting particularly such windows on the ground floor as might lend themselves to his purpose. And as he stood there a chain rattled, a harsh metallic jangle, somewhere at the rear of the house. His eyes flashed to the spot and he perceived a group of outbuildings. The sound furnished him with a useful piece of information; it told him that a dog was there; it also told him that the dog was chained up. He could judge pretty well where it was, so he made a mental note to avoid the spot. It was for this reason that he first turned his attention to the front of the house.
Slowly, exploring the ground with his feet for twigs before putting his weight down, he went on, and presently stood close against the wall. All was silent, as, indeed, was only to be expected, for the hour was late, and it was reasonable to suppose that the occupants of the house were in bed. Had it not been for the lighted window, which proved conclusively that somebody was inside, he would have thought that the house was deserted. Unhurriedly, eyes and ears alert, keeping close against the wall, he moved across the front of the house, trying the front door — a massive portal — on the way. It was locked. He went on to the far corner, and then stopped suddenly, his heart beating faster. Faintly to his ears came the sound of voices, and peering round the corner he made a discovery for which he was not prepared. The light that they had seen as they approached the house must, he now realized, have been in one of the front windows, for the house faced in that direction; and when this light had been extinguished he had supposed, not unnaturally, that the household had retired. But from the corner where he now stood he was able to look along the side of the house farthest from their line of approach — that is to say, farthest from the place where the others were now waiting for him; and to his surprise he perceived that someone was still about, and, moreover, on the ground floor. A shaft of pale orange light issued from a window and fell across the tangle of shrubs outside. Advancing a few more paces, he saw that the window was curtained; the curtains had been drawn, but as they did not meet in the middle a narrow space was left uncovered, and it was from this that the light proceeded.
This at once altered Ginger's plan. He had intended to explore the ground floor for the kitchen, and with everyone upstairs he had imagined that this would be no difficult matter; but if people were still downstairs it would be extremely risky. The kitchen of course would be at the back of the house, but he had avoided making an entry from the rear on account of the dog. Now he hardly knew what to do for the best, but after giving the matter some thought he decided first of all to take a peep through the window in order to see who it was with whom he had to deal, and with this object in view he moved on down the wall towards it.
As he drew nearer to it the sound of voices increased in volume.
Then words reached his ears that stunned him into immobility, for they were spoken in English. This, he told himself, was past belief He expected the conversation would be in Russian. He would not have been surprised had it been in German, or Finnish, or any Scandinavian tongue; but English! Who in the name of heaven could be talking English in such a place? Surely he had been mistaken — his ears had deceived him; but then he distinctly heard a man say, 'Very good.' And at the sound of that voice his lips turned dry. He crept on and looked through the window.
In his life Ginger had had many shocks, but never one such as he now received. His nerves all seemed to tighten like elastic, causing the sensation known as pins and needles to prickle his skin. For this is what he saw.
There were five people in the room, seated round a large table on which still rested the remains of a substantial meal. Three of the men were Russian officers; another was von Stalhein, although Ginger was not particularly surprised at that, for the German had doubtless been with the Russians who had circumnavigated the lake while they had been rowing across it, and had later gone on towards the frontier. This house had apparently been his objective. It was the presence of the fifth man that numbed Ginger with shock.
He knew him only slightly, but he had seen him many times; in fact the man had more than once endea
voured to engage him in conversation, but he was a type that repelled rather than attracted him, and the acquaintanceship had never ripened. He was, in fact, a member of the International Squadron fighting for Finland, a Swede named Olsen who had lived most of his life in Canada — at least, that was what he had said; and this was to some extent borne out by the fact that the only language he spoke was English, and that with a Western accent. Presumably it was
for this reason that English was the language employed in the present conversation with von Stalhein — with whom, incidentally, he seemed quite at home.
Ginger listened horrified as he heard the alleged Swede describing in detail the Finnish plans for defence, leaving no doubt whatever that his real business in the Finnish Air Force was that of a spy, acting on behalf of either Germany or Russia. He spoke volubly, while von Stalhein, nodding occasionally, made notes on a sheet of paper. The Russians seemed content to listen. Ginger could hear everything that passed.
When Olsen had finished von Stalhein took several envelopes from his pocket. 'Take these with you when you go back,' he said. `Deliver them in the usual way. I should like them delivered tomorrow.'
The spy smiled as he took the letters. 'No difficulty about that,' he said.
`You came over in the usual way I suppose?' queried von Stalhein.
`Sure. I'd rather fly than walk I always leave my crate at the same place — the valley just east of the frontier — and then walk across. By the way, what's going on? The frontier is stiff with troops. If I hadn't known the password I should have been in a mess.'
Von Stalhein sipped his wine, fitted a cigarette into a long holder, and lit it before he replied. 'I've had some trouble,' he said curtly, 'with a fellow named Bigglesworth — you may know him. He's in the International Squadron.'
Olsen started. 'Sure I know the skunk. Because he shot down a few of your crack fliers in the last war he acts like he's running the show.'
Von Stalhein smiled faintly. 'He's a British agent.'
`What!' Olsen half rose to his feet. 'Him and them three pals of his always fly as a team.
23 Biggles Sees It Through Page 13